


To the Sea

by Sys



Category: Death in Paradise
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-15
Updated: 2018-12-15
Packaged: 2019-09-19 16:22:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,669
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17005038
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sys/pseuds/Sys
Summary: Just another dancing lesson for butterflies gone awry.





	To the Sea

**Author's Note:**

> As per usual I can't make up my mind about ratings... but I usually go for the higher one when in doubt.

She’s arrested in shocked delight when one of the immovable truths about Richard Poole falls to pieces. For a fraction of a second the world stands still, too. But it’s forced to resume its course. Just as she is. Part of her _wants_ to know what he’d do if he actually caught her. But there’s little hope that it would be anywhere as thrilling as the little fantasies she’s harboured on what he might do. What she would let him do, if he only stopped thinking for a while.

When she turns back he’s himself again. Stepped back out of the water, cursing the sea and the sun and the sand. Curiously he doesn’t curse her for luring him here. Again. 

Slowly she stalks closer, on her guard perhaps only to hold on to the butterflies that didn’t abandon her when he stopped running. 

“You should take off those wet things.” It’s become a dear old habit, telling him that he should be a naked Richard if he can’t be a happy one. The look he gives her helps the butterflies multiply. 

“I don’t want this spreading around the station.” 

It’s futile, explaining that this couldn’t shock either Dwayne or Fidel more than finding them after that not-so-stormy night. But mentioning that night just gets him flustered. Which is adorable. When it’s time to watch him get flustered. _Not_ when he’s finally looking like he’s just about ready to kiss her. If only she didn’t worry that he’ll swim back to England after he does. 

“I don’t kiss and tell.” She drops the ghost of a peck on his lips. 

“You... you kissed me.”

“I’m French. If I _kissed_ you, you’d remember.”

She lets her tongue dart out just a little, not quite enough to qualify as sticking out her tongue at him. But he grows rapidly first very white and then very red in the face. It’d be comical if he didn’t actually look so oddly miserable. 

“I know you think I’m uptight and pompous. But do you _have_ to make fun of me?”

Wait, when did that happen? 

“Richard...”

He turns away and there’s something so terribly defeated about his slumped shoulders that the words to call him back get stuck in her throat. The man’s infuriating, with all his insecurities and inner turmoil and all those egg shells scattered around him. But he’s also warm. And friendly. And overly enthusiastic about work. And lizards. And tea. 

For a while she stares after him, trying to grasp how he could possibly misunderstand her friendly teasing as anything mean-spirited. It should be obvious that she likes him. But something in that terribly busy brain of his must misfire and make him draw all sorts of wrong conclusions from all the right signals. 

 

When she follows him back to the shack it’s to clear up the misunderstanding. Maybe have a beer. But by the time she arrives she’s thought up all the reasons she’s fed up with their situation. With all the responsibility she’s shouldering for both of them. So it’s probably a bad idea to march into his place without as much as a knock. But it’s too late to reconsider.

“I’m sick of this. I’m sick of pretending that what we’re doing is some mild flirting so I don’t scare you so much you run back to England and never come back. And I’m sick of...”

“What?”

She stops, somehow unable to continue when he looks completely bewildered. 

“You... we were... flirting?”

It’s hard to remember the days when they weren’t. But it seems it was possible to be there for it and miss it altogether. 

“Yes.” She says, because it seems too much of a risk to point out that she’s wondered what it’d be like if he caught her and they ended up having sex with the waves washing over them... there might be a time and a place to tell him about that in a couple of decades. Though probably not. “Did you really think I’m teasing you to make fun of you?!”

“Well... you are... unlike anyone I ever met.”

“Whereas I have met dozens of men just like you.”

His face falls and she’s not sure how to mend the pieces. 

“Habit.” She shrugs, finally, trying not to acknowledge the hurt in his eyes because that’d just make things worse. “I only get to see you show strong emotions if I tease you.”

“Okay.” He says, but clearly it’s anything but. 

“I should go.”

Somehow she half expects, half hopes that he’ll call her back. That he’ll ask her not to leave. But of course he doesn’t. Poole rhymes with fool. Not that she’ll tell him that. From what little she’s heard about his early life he’s probably heard that more than once. 

 

She’s well out of the door when he does call her name. And for a moment it just stops her. Doesn’t do anything to make her turn around. But when he calls her again it’s louder, more determined. And he seems slightly breathless, so he’s probably running to catch up with her. She turns around as she waits. Folds her arms against a cool evening breeze she isn’t dressed for. But remains where she is. 

His turn, following her. 

“Richard?”

“Can we talk about this?”

“Yes.” She hesitates. “Maybe you should sleep over it first.” _Don’t do anything rash you’ll regret..._ not that she’d say that. 

“No.” He seems even more surprised by his tone than she is. “No, I’ll... lose my nerve.”

“D’accord. But we should go back in. And you should take off those trousers.” She makes sure _not_ to sound leery this time. Just lets some of her very real concern for him show instead. Not that that seems to make him feel better. 

 

They’ve already made it back inside when he glances at her. “Why would you like me?”

She’s been asking herself that same question dozens of times. But that’s not a very flattering answer. He’s got a few traits she’s liked in other men. And a few she’s disliked on top of that. He’s also got quite a few traits that are unique to him. Must be something about the combination. “Would you have a good answer to that if I asked you? I just do.”

He doesn’t reply. Not that she expected he would.

“Turn around at least,” is what he does say after a stretching pause. And she can’t help think that he really is naive at times. A few more steps and he’d have the semi privacy of his bathroom. It’s once she turned she realises that she can’t betray his trust. They’ll get to taking off their clothes when they’re ready for it. Or if. For now it matters that he’s taking her advice. 

“Okay.” The sheepish tone again. And his pyjamas. She’s missed seeing him in those. It’s still unnecessary to wear them even on one of the cooler nights. Not unless you plan to sleep outside. But it beats seeing him in suit and tie. 

Something in that hint of a smile of his says not to tease him. Not even gently. 

“Can I have a cup of tea?” 

It’s more to give him something to do so he’ll stop fidgeting. But he seems shocked at his lack of good manners. Or maybe it’s that she’s asking for a cup of tea, rather than a beer. 

“You came into the sea for me,” she says when he’s busy enough to pretend not to hear. It’s as good a first reason to offer as any. “I thought you would kiss me this time.”

He stiffens ever so slightly, accidentally acknowledging her words. But he doesn’t reply, of course. Just starts the kettle and readies the cups. And probably regrets having to waste some of his precious tea on a philistine. 

“I wanted to.” 

For almost a minute she can’t make sense of those words. Not of the meaning. Not of the tone. Not of any of it. But he’s perfectly serious. And the butterflies wake as if from hibernation. slowly steadying themselves for another crazy dance. 

“Do you still want to?”

When he nods, but doesn’t turn around, it’s almost worse than a no. To think that he wants to and she wants to and they’re stuck in a stalemate because he’s still got his back turned to her and he still pretends the tea needs his attention when he’s already poured the water... 

“Richard.” She pours every bit of meaning into the one word. And he does turn. But he looks so terrified she’s more tempted to give him a hug. A hug he can deal with, she’s taught him that much months ago. Years, even. He backs away just a tiny bit when she comes closer, but relaxes when she reaches out to put her arms around him. Even awkwardly wraps one arm around her when she doesn’t let go. It’s enough. For a start. Only that it couldn’t possibly last for long, of course.

“Camille?”

“Mmm?”

“The tea?”

Priorities. Her sigh might be _a little_ exaggerated. 

“You said you...” 

“Yes,” she interrupts. “Yes I did...I mean, I do. But it’s too early to drink it now, isn’t it?” She’s not completely ignorant. Wasn’t, even before she met this particular enthusiast. “Why don’t we use the time to practice?”

“Practice what?!”

“Give me your hand.”

No reaction. Well, unless you count a confused frown. 

When she holds out her own hand, though, he offers her his with a resignation to his fate a martyr would have been proud of. She helps him rest his fingers against her cheek and closes her eyes in an exaggeration of the pleasantness of the touch. It _is_ nice. But it’d be a lot better if it felt like something he actually wants to do. Really, if he’d seen the boys touch her like this he’d probably have copied them hoping to please her. But doing anything remotely forward...

The thought ceases to matter when she feels his lips pressed against hers. Without _real_ conviction. But it’s definitely more than that earlier peck. He chose to wet dry lips. So closing her eyes has made her miss that little show of intent. When she parts her lips he doesn’t withdraw as she feared. If anything it emboldens him. Who would have... well thinking’s overrated. She feels his hand grasp her hair and presses closer. Allows her own hands to roam, find his ass and cup a feel. Pinch him ever so slightly. There’s a light tug to her hair, but she’s not sure if it’s a warning or an encouragement. 

If she hears anything at all about tea for the next few minutes she might have to kill him.

He _is_ a hungry kisser. Bit messy, too. But practice should see to that. 

A new, risky, thought takes a hold of her. It’s only about two feet. Just... if he misunderstands... or if he thinks she’s moving too fast. Better not to push him. Instead she draws away from his mouth long enough to make it sound like a suggestion. “Lie down.”

“Why?”

Or for God’s sake, like she’d have unprotected sex. “It’s more comfortable.”

His look is slightly wary. But he’s also clearly too into this to stop now. So he does as he’s told for a change and she follows, straddling him only to bend down towards his mouth. He misses all opportunities to explore her body. Returns his hands to her face and hair as if that’s the only place he could possibly think to touch her. But his breathing turns ragged when she moves her mouth to his neck and she can feel his excitement pressed none too subtly against her. Hopefully he won’t notice. He’d probably scramble away if he realised. 

“Camille?” If he talks about tea...“May I touch you?”

_Almost_ as bad. What part of we’re on your bed and I’m nipping on your neck is the man missing? She doesn’t trust her voice not to show her frustration so she grabs his hand and rests it against her breast. If that isn’t e... it is. It _really_ is. Should’ve moved it beneath her top, maybe. But one step at a time. It’s tempting to exploit the thin fabric of his pyjamas. But she shakes her head at herself, forbidding that course of action. 

And he withdraws his hands. 

“Don’t stop.”

“But you...”

Really, is it that difficult to tell that she’s enjoying this? 

“I want you to touch me.”

It sounds terrible, said out loud. But at least it returns his hands to all the right places. Well maybe not _all_ of them. But there isn’t really enough room for that unless she moves. And it might just be one step too many for a first night with a man like Richard. Damn, he’s figured out rubbing his fingers over the peaks... she can’t suppress the trembling. 

“If you keep doing that you’ll have to fuck me.”

She regrets the choice of words as soon as they left her mouth. Could’ve at least told him in French. It doesn’t come as a surprise when he stops, studying her in some odd mixture of wanting more and... probably remembering who they are and what a bloody mess this could turn into if they move too fast. If they move at all, even.

“Camille, we should...”

“I know.” She forces herself to move off him with a weak grin. “The tea.”

He looks every bit as disappointed as she feels, but it’s probably better to move slower and get it right. “The tea,” he agrees, finishing up the preparations of what’s probably a _very_ strong brew now. Not that she’ll acknowledge it. 

She accepts her cup with the most innocuous mien she can manage. It’s terrible, of course. But the progress they’ve made in the meantime is worth the dreadful taste. She forces down a sip, but when he’s tasted his he collects her cup again and shakes his head ruefully. “Sorry... I was distracted.”

A joke? Her appreciation for the man rises further. 

“Do you want a beer?”

And further.

“A beer would be good.”

It takes him all of thirty seconds to get their beers and open them, but it’s enough time to worry about her disturbing new appreciation for his pyjamas. Really, there should be limits to how far gone you can be. 

The beer’s pretty good to wash away the tea-taste. And cover for the awkward silence that’s trying to settle between them. When she’s done drinking she says her thanks and leans in to kiss his cheek. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

“I... it’s dark outside. You can’t... I should walk you home.”

“And get your head smashed by some mad druggie on your way back? I don’t think so.”

“They could smash _your_ head in. I’d never forgive myself.”

“Are you asking me to stay the night?” She refrains from pointing out that she’s been fine walking home on almost all nights she’s been out after dark on this island. And she’s survived the nights when she wasn’t.

“If... if you promise not to take off your clothes...” He looks awfully embarrassed that he’s remembered that little bit of information. 

“Most men...”

“I’m... uh... I’m not sure... I could be trusted to remain a gentleman.” 

“Really?” She refrains from asking if he’s got condoms when she sees his face.

“Camille, please...” 

“No sleeping in the nude. No wandering hands... you’re missing a lot of fun, Richard Poole.” She pads his shoulder sympathetically. But it’s probably just as well. _For now._ “We should turn in. If we’re both late tomorrow it’ll give the gang something to talk about. And I have to head home before I go in.”

Sharing a bed with a man you want to have sex with but shouldn’t isn’t much fun. But she resists all temptation to find out whether he’s still turned on.


End file.
